nom

Wooby is the tallest and richest of my few friends. Like I did to a handful of korean malcontents with whom I share my despair and sardonic bitterness, I successfully drilled all hipster bullshit and a justified malice toward the shallowness and arch lame doddering of the whole korean shebang into him, and thus he more or less hates this fucking country now. Prior to his edification, he was a kind of a guy who is into Nujabes (some departed japanese purveyor of electronic irritants whose music is quite big amongst feather-brained korean party people) and Marc Jacobs labels. He still retains his fashiony passion but only in a I-love-fashion-but-defy-fashion-fashion fashion.

He has been mucking about NYC for some time and is currently spending most of his time in London. Therefore he could be the object of my envy. Yet I opted to utilize his First-Worlder privilege as a communicative window through which I, in a sense, vicariously live. He mainly serves as an informant about the scene who often gratifies my fan-boy curiosity; Like, “How cute was Jennifer Clavin in the flesh?”, “How fat is Lydia Lunch now? Is she still goddam a boner dispenser?”. He may have many merits except that.